Jaws of the Wolf
by Leman of the Russ
Summary: Arnbjorn, a member of the fabled Thunderwolf Cavalry, faces a dire situation. The Thousand Sons have found a way to corrupt the geneseed of fallen Space Wolves and using sorcery to raise them back from the dead to fight their own battle-brothers. He is joined by the Eldar to aid him in his quest. But he must master the beast inside. Can he save his soul as well as his Chapter?
1. Prologue

_This is the first part of my first story, it might seem a bit strange, but i'll improve it as i go on, so please enjoy and comment_

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Arnbjorn growled as he saw another of his Rhinos go down to enemy fire, skidding to a halt whilst its interior blazed away merrily. That was the sixth since he arrived on this Russ-forsaken rock nine days ago. They had been dispatched to the Sentinel Sector to contain a Chaos uprising on one of the main Hive worlds, but when they got there it had turned into a war for the whole system and none other than the Thousand Sons Chaos Space Marines, the Space Wolves' arch-enemies. He stood amongst the rubble, astride his mighty Thunderwolf Icefang, his huge frame rippling with muscle, clad in his Wolf Guard power armour, its ancient surface covered with countless scars and potmarks from numerous battles, with his frost axe and storm shield clasped in his enormous fists, surrounded by his pack of Grey Hunters. The Hunters stood behind him, perfectly calm, awaiting his command. He turned to them and said "Now is the time my brothers! Now we show these Chaos-worshiping fiends the meaning of fear!" he gestured behind him with his frost axe "Let us remind them of the Burning of Prospero! For Russ!" His war cry was echoed by his men with a great roar of "For Russ! For Fenris! For the AllFather!" and with that, Icefang charged forth from the rubble, howling his war cry.

The ruins became alive with howls as the rest of his pack followed suit. Arnbjorn's mouth curled into a wolfish grin. He lived for moments like this. There was no greater pleasure than that of combat. There was no greater feeling than knowing that your live hung in your gauntleted hands, and whether you lived or died depended purely on your reactions and reflexes. He charged where resistance was thickest, Icefang running like a bolt from the barrel of a gun. He barrelled into a squad of Thousand Sons, swinging he axe as he ran, using Icefang's momentum to fuel his swing. One of the Marines tried to rise to see what had just happened. Arnbjorn beheaded him. Icefang casually leapt over a flimsy barrier that the rebels had erected in a vain attempt to keep the Wolves out. As he raced forward, Icefang tore through any and all in his path, using his adamantium fangs, the source of his name, to tear through armour and flesh as easily as a man closes the fingers on his hand. They moved with all the grace of a large battering ram, sprinting through the cloud of enemy fire like it was just a squall back on the open planes of Fenris. Both of them killed more than their share, both rending and tearing anything within reach. They raced on, like a whirlwind of death, leaving dead or dying heretics in their wake. His axe carved a great swathe before him, cutting through armour and flesh with equal ease. His men followed in his wake, forming a flying wedge behind their great leader. The Thousand Sons died in droves, either by bolter fire or by the swords and axes of the Wolves. He charged towards the centre of the city, towards the great steel Citadel towering above them, its mighty tower like a great spear pointing towards the heavens. He acted purely on instinct, acting and reacting, centuries of training and combat experience coming into play in his every action. His axe described a deadly arc, killing anything foolish enough not to avoid its fell blade. He raced across a desolate courtyard, its inhabitants either dead to captured, his mind set purely on the hunt. A stray bolter round caught him in the shoulder, knocking him out of the saddle, and he and his wolf were separated by the tide of combat. He saw a pack of Blood Claws hunkered behind a wall ahead of him, and thought he should join them. Blood Claws were the Chapter's latest recruits, only just having survived their brutal initiation. They were notorious for their berserk charges during combat, but their glory hunting ethos meant that they would sometimes charge headlong into enemy fire and end up not doing anything except dying. His nose told him that they were mostly unharmed, aside from the occasional flesh wound they would normally receive. As he approached, they noticed him and raised their weapons in salute. He jogged over to them, and spoke to Thorvald, their pack leader. "How goes it?" he asked. Thorvald shook his head; his mane of hearth-fire red heard swirling around his head. "Not well Lord" he said "the enemy is well fortified and dug in. Thorbjorn's Long Fangs haven't made even a dent in them." Arnbjorn frowned, this was troubling news indeed. Long Fangs were the wielders of the Wolves' heavy weapons. If nothing in their arsenal could scratch the enemy fortifications, then they were in troubles. "Weapons?" he asked. Thorvald peered round the corner, then jerked back as a bolter round slammed into the reinforced concrete he was hiding behind. "At least four heavy bolters along the east flank, and six pointed our way." He said, his voice slightly shaky due to his brush with death. Arnbjorn cursed into his beard. This hadn't gone the way he planned. He braved a peek round the corner of the wall, then turned back to Thorvald. "Does anyone have any grenades?" he asked, a plan already forming in his mind. Thorvald nodded, then squeezed the grenade dispenser on his belt. An egg shaped ball of death dropped into his palm. "How long do you want the fuse?" he asked, his voice taking on a tone of slight curiosity. Arnbjorn leaned round the corner again, taking in the heavy concrete barricade, the coils of barbed wire between him and it, and the gun crews with their relative positions in just one glance. "No less than four seconds" he said when he ducked back down. Thorvald pressed the stud six times, and hurled it with all his power-armoured and genetically enhanced might. They watched as the grenade sailed through the air and landed right in the traitor's midst, and explode in a cloud of shrapnel and concrete. The rebel gun crews were taught completely off guard, and were sent flying by the blast, limbs and bodies and internal organs flying in all directions.

With a great roar, Arnbjorn, Thorvald, the Claws and the Hunters raced forward, bolters spitting death in every direction, and chainblades killing those that the bolters did not. Arnbjorn led from the fore, his axe cutting huge swathes in the enemy ranks, his shield impervious to enemy fire. He raced ahead of the packs, cutting down traitors and Chaos Marines in equal measure. He charged through concrete walls as thick as his own armour without breaking his stride. His axe swung in deadly arcs, its death-edge as keen as the claws of the wights of the Underverse. He was unmatched by any and all who opposed him. He felt like a god, a true Angel of Death. He charged into combat heedless of the dangers, his heart afire with bloodlust and revelling in the glory of combat. The traitors shrank back from this demon, this god of slaughter. Eventually their nerve broke and they fled, falling over each other in their haste to escape. As he watched them run, Arnbjorn threw back his head and uttered a great howl. "_Hjolda!" _he roared, revelling in his moment of triumph. So great was his distraction he failed to notice the shapes of the melta bombs at his feet until he was thrown backwards by their combined explosive force, hurling him into a nearby wall, causing the top of it to collapse and bury him in rubble. His last thought was how similar this was to a past campaign, and how nice it would be to see the warriors of old he had fought with back then, and before he lost consciousness the memories flooded back, bringing with them the cold embrace of the Red Dream.


	2. Chapter 1

_ok, here's the next installment. For chronological reference, these next parts are set four hundred years before the prologue. please enjoy and comment_

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"Kill him! Kill the swine!" the Claws yelled, watching as two of their pack-mates punched one of the younger aspirants to a bloody pulp against one of the great oak tables in the feasting hall of the Fang. Arnbjorn growled deep in his throat and flicked his head to get his large mane of black hair out of his face. He barrelled into the hall and leapt over the table, grasping the two Claws by the throat and using his momentum to drive them to the ground. He hauled them up by the scruff of their necks and threw them across the hall. The rest of the pack started jeering at him for ruining their fun, but a steely glare shut them up fast. Arnbjorn advanced on the two Claws, a slow menacing walk complimented by his sheer size and the aura of brute strength that normally surrounded him. The two turned to look at each other, identical expressions of horror on their faces. They had heard the tales, everyone had, that in the heart of Logan Grimnar's Wolf Guard there lay a berserker; a Wulfen in human form, a man who would kill fellow wolf-brothers, a man so full of hate that the only reason the Old Wolf kept him around was his battle-prowess. Most of the stories were exaggerated, Arnbjorn thought, but he could play on their fears to teach them the lesson they needed to learn. For now.

He advanced slowly, each step of his armoured feet sounding like a beat of Morkai's drum, his fingers curled into claws, his fangs bared. The Claws struggled to their feet and began circling him, like wolves circling a potential rival, fists raised. He swung the first punch, sending his sledge-hammer fist flying into one of the Claws' breastplates with such force that the hardened ceramite crumpled like a dented bronze. The poor marine was sent hurtling backwards, impacting on the walls at the opposite end of the hall with a sickening crunch. The other Claw roared in rage and charged, legs pumping like the pistons of a Land Raider engine, arms outstretched. Arnbjorn leapt, letting the charge pass under him. When he reached the peak of his jump, he drove his right knee straight down, and slammed into the back of his young opponent, driving him face first into the stone floor. He grasped the Claw's arms and pinned them behind his back, placing his knee on top of them. He bent down so his mouth was level with the youngster's ear.

"What's your name whelp?" he growled, his voice like two granite boulders rubbing together. The Claw's face paled as he heard Arnbjorn's voice, and unbidden, Arnbjorn saw a mental image of what the poor whelp was thinking, the image of Morkai himself pinning the Claw to the floor, with his jaws mere millimetres from closing around his throat, cutting his thread. "Th-Th-Thorvald, Lord" he stammered, his voice filled with fear. The aspirant was absolutely terrified, Arnbjorn could tell purely by his scent. "Very well then, Thorvald" Arnbjorn replied, his voice becoming a rasping snarl "Hearken to my words. We do not; do not, assault another wolf-brother unless it is a matter of honour at stake. To do it for anything less in an insult to our ancestors and our Chapter." His words struck home like hammer-blows, each phrase like an axe-cut to Thorvald's pride and honour, which was what Arnbjorn had intended. "I recognise my failing and will be sure to correct it." He said in a choked voice. Arnbjorn nodded, then raised his voice so that all could hear. "Let this serve as an example" he boomed "if I catch any of you brawling again, I'll rip your cocky throats out personally." There was the sound of cheering and applause at the huge doorway, and he turned to see the rest of the Wolf Guard appear, with Logan Grimnar, the Great Wolf himself, enter the hall, flanked by his bodyguard.

"Very well said" the Old Wolf said, his voice rumbling across the vast hall with ease. The Claws immediately leapt to attention, the presence of their lord made them act as if they were in the presence of Russ himself. They bowed as Grimnar passed them, their awe evident in their scents and on their faces. He nodded to them individually as he passed in acknowledgement, his grey mane of hair and beard tumbling over his chest and shoulders like a silver waterfall. He marched across the hall to the head table, accompanied by the finest warriors in his company, and sat on the Throne of Russ, resting the whole of his armoured frame on the suspensor field embedded in the stone. It was carved from a single block of granite, a snarling wolfs head at the back, the arms were its paws. His Wolf Guard immediately, by an unspoken signal, flanked their lord, hands resting on the hafts and butts of their weapons. Arnbjorn himself took his position, closest to the Throne on the right. Logan beckoned him closer, and murmured "Next time try to do that without it scaring the whelps shitless" Arnbjorn grinned, if there's one good thing about being in the Old Wolf's Wolf Guard, it's the fact that he treated with the respect worthy of your deeds.

"I recognise my failing and will be sure to correct it." He said with a smirk. Logan nodded and slapped him on the shoulder. "Now to business" he said and clapped his hands. At that signal, an eerie cry filled the hall, and echoed throughout that level of the Fang, like the wail of the wights of the Underverse. It was a call to battle. All throughout the level weapons were stored, ammo collected, vehicles prepped. The whole area was filled with the sound of preparation for combat. Something had happened. The Lord of Wolves turned to Arnbjorn and said "Gather your brothers Wolf Rider, this day we ride to war."


	3. Chapter 2

_I know this chapter is a bit short, but it was either this or carrying on which would make it really boring. Again, enjoy and commet!_

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Two hours later, aboard the Pride of Fenris, Grimar's personal flagship, Arnbjorn and the whole Wolf Guard and Thunderwolf Cavalry; mounts and riders, took their places on the bridge. An entire section of the bridge, an area the size of one of the training halls of the Fang, had been cleared for the Cavalry and their noble steeds. Arnbjorn had hoped to tame his own Thunderwolf before leaving Fenris, but events had moved against him, so he stood by his lord, clad in his Terminator armour, a hulking figure of pure ceramite and adamantium.

Despite his size, he was dwarfed by Grimnar. The Lord of Wolves had a presence that filled the entire room, and an aura of unbreakable confidence. He sat in his throne; resplendent in his armour, his frame suspended mere millimetres from the surface of the stone. "Shipmaster Vignar" he boomed, his voice carried seven hundred years of authority "status report." Vignar, the blonde shipmaster, and a man of Fenris like most of the crew, glanced up from the control lectern to look at his lord. "Engines at full power, all systems at full efficiency Lord, course is locked for jump point insertion." he stated. Grimnar leaned back in his throne. "Very well Shipmaster" he rumbled "As soon as we're in jump range, signal the fleet." Vignar nodded, then returned his attention to the lectern. Arnbjorn turned to the Great Wolf and asked "What would have of me Lord?" Logan looked at him with his ice-like eyes, a thoughtful expression on his granite-like features. "Find Ulrik and bring him to me" he said. Arnbjorn nodded and left the bridge, heading to the lower levels.

Ulrik the Slayer was the High Wolf Priest, the spiritual leader of the Chapter. He was the oldest warrior in the Imperium, baring the ancient Dreadnoughts. It was he that dragged Grimnar off the ice and turned him into the warrior he is today. As he walked down the halls, a klaxon blared, and the entire ship started shaking. "Jump into Immaterium in 10…9…8…" The ship started shaking like a leashed hound, testing its bonds. "7…6…5…4" A faint halo of light had surrounded everything, and the shaking had increased. Arnbjorn feared the ship might shake itself apart before they even the Warp. "3…2…1…Jump!" The ship leapt forward, like a rabid beast breaking free of its leash. There was an almighty howl that flooded the corridor, and Arnbjorn fell to his knees, his gauntleted hands clamped over his ears. He lay there clawing at his ears when he saw an armoured boot land in front of him, as black as Morkai's fur. He looked up and stared directly into the lenses of the Wolf Helm of Russ, its yellow teeth arrayed into a fearsome snarl. Only a Wolf Priest wore the skull helms, and only one Wolf Priest wore the Wolf Helm. "Need a hand there, brother?" the deep, resonate voice of Ulrik the Slayer asked, whilst he offered a hand, his red eye lenses flashing in the light.


	4. Chapter 3

_Wow, you guys seem to love this! Anyway, this is the latest chapter, it is a little shorter than the others, but i find the longer chapters seem like a wall of text. Anyway, read, enjoy and comment!_

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Arnbjorn took it gratefully and hauled himself up. When he was on his feet, Ulrik removed his helm with the hiss of breaking air seals, revealing a face like stone, each scar looked more like years of erosion than results of battle. A great silver beard tumbled over his ale-barrel chest, and two amber eyes stared out at him, each one twinkling with hidden merriment, but hardened with the rage of centuries. "The Great Wolf requests your presence, Ancient One" Arnbjorn said respectfully. Ulrik cocked his head to the side, a rueful smile on his grizzled features. "So, even Logan needs advise from his old mentor, does he?" Arnbjorn nodded. The fact that Ulrik was only person to call Grimnar by his given name showed the amount of respect the Old Wolf had for the Slayer. He stepped aside to let him the old man pass, then followed him back to the bridge. It was only when he entered it a second time did he actually get a good look at it. It was more of a Fenrisian feasting hall than a command centre. There were beast pelts on the floor; mighty banners hang from the walls, mighty braziers blazed in the corners. The beast imagery was everywhere. Most of the consoles were in spaces carved to look like the jaws of wolves or bears. The ivory keys had yellowed with age so they looked like the teeth of some ancient predator. He walked towards the command throne just behind Ulrik and took his place by the Great Wolf's side. "You wished to see me Great Wolf?" Ulrik asked, kneeling as a man might do before his jarl. Grimnar nodded. "Rise my friend" he rumbled. Ulrik rose to his feet and Grimnar turned to Vignar. "Bring up the target, Shipmaster" he ordered. Vignar nodded and adjusted some of the dials on his lectern. Before their eyes a green globe of a distant world appeared before their eyes. "Coronia XII" Grimnar explained "They have stopped responding to all vox hails" Ulrik nodded thoughtfully, no doubt using his centuries of experience to construct a plan. "Have the Rune Priests discovered anything?" he asked, his eyes still glued to the hololith. "Why don't you ask us yourself old man" a new voice boomed from behind the Wolf Throne.

Everyone turned to stare at the intruder. Before them stood a Terminator armoured, rune encrusted giant, with flaming red hair, a staff clutched in his giant hands. Logan beckoned him over whilst saying "Ah Njal, please join us" Njal Stormcaller walk over to his lord, his psyber raven perched on one of his massive shoulders, turning its head left and right to examine everyone in the room. "Have you and your brothers discerned anything of use?" Grimnar asked. Njal nodded his head solemnly. "We have indeed Great Wolf, but the news is grave." That got everyone's attention. No one doubted the word of the Priesthood, so if they said they had grave news, they meant it, and it was bad. Njal rapped his staff on the deck, sparks of power rippling from the base across the steel plates. The hololith changed from a view of the planet to an aerial view of a major city on its surface. Imperial runes dotted the display, showing the positions of allied forces in green and enemy signatures in red. Njal pointed to the city. "Porenthus Prime" he said "planetary capital, seat of power, and a secret Chaos cesspit" the mortal crew all gasped in unison, much to the Wolves' amusement. Ulrik strolled over to the lectern, whilst gesturing for Vignar to step aside as politely as possible. The Shipmaster nodded, and stepped down from the lectern to let the old Priest through. He adjusted a few of the dials, muttering some of the litanies of adjustment under his breath. The map zoomed out to show some of the outlying areas. A new set of runes appeared on the display, blue in colour and in an unknown language. Njal's jaw practically hit the deck when he saw those runes. Ulrik's eyes widened in surprise. Even Grimnar seemed taken aback by this development. Arnbjorn turned to the Stormcaller, his eyes still locked on the runes. "What are those runes Stormcaller?" he asked, his voice hushed. He could tell there was a more important question on everyone's mind, were they friend, or foe?

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**Woah! Weren't expecting THAT now were you? Anyway, the next chpater might take a few days to write, but then we'll find out exactly what those signals are and, more importantly, who they belong to.**

**Leman of the Russ**


	5. Chapter 4

_Sorry for the short chapter and not updating sooner, but writing 40k cannon is hard! Anyway, here's the latest chapter, so read, enjoy and review_

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The bridge was silent as a tomb. Every pair of eyes were glued on the hololith. Arnbjorn realised he was holding his breath. Njal was staring at the projection, his expression one of deep concentration. Ulrik was also staring at them, using his centuries of experience to provide some insight. Every Wolf there was trying to figure out exactly what those runes meant. Arnbjorn walked round the hololith, viewing the runes from every angle. Something about them seemed familiar about them, but what?

It was when he noticed their flowing design and arcane symbolism that it clicked in his mind. "That's Eldar script" he said, making every head turn in his direction. Njal stared at him, then turned his attention back to the map. "If what you say is true" he rumbled "then _that_ would be a webway gate" he pointed to one of the larger energy signatures. Ulrik nodded his grizzled head in agreement. "If the Eldar are here, then there's something sinister going on here. We should-" they were thrown forward by something impacting the ship. A klaxon started wailing around the bridge, and one of the crewmen stared at his instruments with a mixed look of surprise and undisguised horror. "Sir!" he cried "We have incoming contacts! Three frigates directly below us, advancing fast!"

Vignar immediately returned to the lectern. Activating the vox hailers on every deck, he said "All combat crews to battle stations! We have incoming hostiles. Repeat; all combat crews to battle stations." He stepped back at glanced at the Great Wolf. "Will you be wishing to command this battle personally Lord?" he asked. Grimnar rose from his throne, his presence doubling with that slight movement. He turned to look at Vignar. "Carry on Shipmaster" he boomed "We shall handle this our way." The shipmaster nodded, then returned his attention to the battle unfolding below him. Grimnar turned back to his Wolf Guard. "Gather your forces and meet us at the forward launch bays. We launch in ten minutes!"

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Arnbjorn stood outside one of the huge Caestus Assault Rams, weapons in hand. Over sixty Grey Hunters and Blood Claws had assembled, split into six teams they would board each craft and detonate it's reactor. He would be with one of the teams attacking the flagship, which was led, unsurprising, by the Great Wolf himself, and consisted of the majority of the Wolf Guard. He watched as the others strapped themslves into their chairs, each Wolf tightening the straps with unconscious precision and coordination. He turned as he heard the tramp of armoured boots behind him, to see Grimnar, flanked by the rest of his guard, march up the ramp to the assault craft. The Great Wolf stopped next to Arnbjorn, whereas his guard proceeded to prepare themselves for launch. Arnbjorn approached his lord as was custom. "Arnbjorn" Logan acknowledged "I have a boon to ask of you" Arnbjorn nodded to his lord, and beckoned for him to continue. "When we reach the reactor, I want you to set the charges. Four minute fuse, no more, no less" Arnbjorn's jaw dropped. Was his lord mad? Four minutes was barely enough time to get back to the assault craft, nowhere near enough for them to reach minimum safe distance. He said as much to Logan. The Old WOlf merely smiled and shook his head "Ah, but I plan on following the example of young Ragnar Blackmane my dear friend, his so-called 'twin jaws' strategy. We shall send two teams to each ship, each team landing on the opposite side to the other, as close to the reactor as possible. From there they shall both head to the reactor, crushing everything in their path." As the Great Wolf outlined his plan, Arnbjorn felt a grin tug at his mouth. Eventually, he couldn't stop himself roaring with laughter. He had been so stupid! He had thought they would land near the prow of the enemy vessel, as was traditional, not somethign this reckless. Oh how he had been fooled! Even Logan was smiling, the irony not lost on him. When Arnbjorn's laughter had subsided, the Old Wolf slapped him on the shoulder and said "Get going you fool! I might need some of that Wulfen rage you keep bragging about!" With a cry of "Aye Lord!" he dashed to the cockpit of the assault craft and powered up the ships mighty engines. He activated the intercom. "Ok whelps lsiten up! We launch in one minute, so buckle up, unsheath your blades, and prepare for battle. Blood and red glory await us!" His little speech was greeted with roars of approval. Grinning, he continued "For the Claws among us, a few words of advise. Keep your eyes open, your mouths shut, and don't screw up, or I'll be forced to drag your sorry arses back to the ship myself, and you really, REALLY don't want to know what happened to the last poor whelp who I had to do that for." That was greeted with roars of laughter, and the sound of fists pounding on armour. He ran his eyes over the displays in front of him. "Ok Hrongar, lets power 'er up" he said to his co-pilot. With the sound reminiscent of a Kraken's battle roar, the mighty vessel flew out of the launch bay like a bolt out of a bolter, the other five craft following in its wake. Arnbjorn's mouth twisted into a predatory grin. He lived for moments like this, to feel the thrill of the hunt, to see the prey before you, and know that you are in control. This was the way of the Wolves, the hunt, and murder-make. To charge headlong into enemy fire with a weapon in your hand and a war cry on your lips. _So it has always been, so shall it always be_ Arnbjorn thought as his craft sped towards its destination. Down in the passenger chambers, the Claws had started howling their war crys, a feral sound that one might hear from a pack on the hunt. Soon the Hunters joined in, their deep voices mingling with the higher pitches of the younger Claws. Then the Wolf Guard joined in, their resonate voices making the combined howling all the more terrifying. Very soon everyone, even Logan Grimnar, the Great Wolf himself, was howling with the thrill of battle. Arnbjron grinned as he listened. He fed more power into the engines, and the little craft started shaking. Outside, rapidly approaching, the enemy vessels activated their defenses, rusted gun turrets traferssing on corroded barings, bringing their mighty guns to bear on the approaching boarding vessels. Huge energy capacitors thrummed into life, giant shells were driven into enormous barrels, as the gun crews on each ship prepared for combat. Then the void of space lit up as the mighty ships opened fire, and the world turned into fire and light.

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**HAHA! Yup, that's right, the Wolves are back in style! So, will they actually survive long enough to find out who attacked them? Wait for the next update to find out! I won't be updating for a good while, I'm gonna focus on my up-coming Dragon Age fanfic, so keep an eye out for that one!  
**


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